by Rory Nelson
Drake pushes himself harder, nearly to his breaking point. The train clears the landing. His only hope is to jump for it. Like doing a long jump, he pushes himself with large strides toward the end of the landing. While throwing his body forward, he uses his momentum to reach for the maximum distance.
He knows it’s going to be close. But not close enough. Drake misses a grab onto the guardrail on the last caboose by at least a foot. He drops to the ground and goes limp to avoid an injury. The fall is hard but he’s intact. Out of breath, Drake takes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his face off.
Unable to board the train, he walks around the meadow adjoining the train station. He inconspicuously doubles back towards the room. When he gets close to his room, he witnesses the aftermath of the ruckus he caused. Several deputies walk in and out of his room, scrutinizing the numerous bullet holes and carnage.
His crimson-stained suit contrasts with his once white shirt. “Fuck!” he mumbles to himself. Unable to obtain a clear view without his hyper-oculars, Drake moves closer. The swarm of people surrounding the deputies makes it more difficult to see. As he inches in, Drake notices one deputy carrying out his bag – the one he left in the room. Dammit! He needs that bag and thinks of a plan to avoid needless bloodshed.
Chapter 9: The Super Posse
As Renault enters the train, the hairs on his forearms stand up on end. The door closes. That gut feeling in his stomach tells him he is never wrong about such things.
A group of businessmen in blue suits, similar to his, take a seat. Although sitting in the same car is not unusual, the train is far from full. What gives him pause is where they are sitting. From a perfect vantage point in the rail car, they occupy seats nearest the aisle. One can view at every angle.
Renault walks down the aisle and counts six of them as they read their newspapers, The Bixby Sentinel. Their suits show their impeccable taste and hint at their musculature underneath. Are they true “businessmen”?
With no businessmen behind him, Renault finds a seat in the middle and opens his disguised newspaper. A passing thought comes to him. He reads the train schematic and contemplates a plan for quick elimination. But he abandons that though when he notices more of his surroundings.
Standing almost seven feet tall, another businessman dips his head down as he enters one car away. This man wears an immaculate canary-yellow suit. His strong jawline refines his look. When the man completes his entry, four more businessmen follow not far behind their tall leader. The men dress similar to the men in his car. Their trek does not stop.
Renault gazes at his paper a few seconds more, tucks his schematic away, and leaves in the opposite direction. To minimize needless casualties, he skips several cars with too many people in search of one less occupied. Since the next car has a train marshal, he walks through it.
After a few cars, he finds the perfect one. With most of the seats vacated, three passengers sit in silence. Renault takes a seat in the middle of the pew benches. One elderly gentleman reads a book and the other middle-aged man scans a newspaper. The last passenger, an attractive young lady, writes inside a journal as she gazes into the landscape.
Renault flicks his newspaper open and pretends to read. He hears the entourage enter his car when the air pressure gives way to a glass door. The three passengers take little notice of the new entrants. To intimidate, the men sit surrounding Renault. Within minutes, Renault belches with grand vigor. He excuses himself, but it’s too late. The elderly gent throws him a frown of utter disgust, looks down, and continues to read.
Again, Renault belches and excuses himself. The elderly gent rises, gives him a contemptuous glance, and leaves. The middle-aged man shakes his head and sighs but continues his reading.
Renault consults his schematic of the train one more time. More than likely, the men are more than familiar with this train. If he creates a last-minute improvisation, perhaps he can survive this predicament.
As he puts away his schematic, he contemplates something he would never do in a public place. Lifting his butt cheeks a few inches from his seat, Renault squeezes and flatulates. The sound of a loud, wet balloon vibrates against the seat. He hoped for a less conspicuous disturbance but only loud enough to incite the remaining passengers.
The woman sneers at Renault and removes herself at once.
“You’re very rude!” exclaims the middle-aged man. He shakes his head in disgust.
“I cry pardon, Sai. Afraid it couldn’t be helped,” Renault apologizing.
As the middle-aged man walks to the sliding door, Renault reaches for two knives in his flap jacket. The door shuts. Renault launches them from both hands as they find their marks with precision. The first knife bullseye’s the man’s pupil. He grabs his head and screams in agony. The second knife cuts deep into another man’s larynx. Slumping to the ground, he clutches onto his throat as he gurgles on the blood.
Renault does not emerge unscathed. Two knives penetrate him. One lodges into his forearm and one in his back. He grasps and removes it, then cries out in painful surprise.
With his quick reflexes, he jumps in the air and across his bench. The forceful back kick connects with the inattentive man two rows behind him. His neck snaps back, and he slumps in his seat. Darkness overtakes him.
Another man in the car lunges at Renault, while Renault sidesteps and brings up his knife. He pierces it into the man’s side, and he wails in excruciating pain. While the man is preoccupied, another man slips from his hiding place. He swings his knife in an arc, hoping to catch Renault. But Renault is much too quick and ducks at the last second.
The man sidesteps, pivots and strikes out at Renault’s face. Although Renault blocks the punch the hit grazes Renault’s nose. Centering himself, the man launches another knife thrust but Renault blocks with a quick flick of his arm.
The man retracts for a round-house kick and Renault absorbs the entire force. His quadriceps winces from the impact and he shakes it off. Renault re-centers himself thinking of his next move. Without telegraphing, he plants a fierce upper cut into the man’s gut. As blood emits from the point of his knife, the man cries out.
While Renault is about to launch another crippling blow, a calm voice from behind him, addresses him. “Turn around,” says the owner of the voice.
“Brane, Fallslander said to do it quietly.” Renault knows the name well. Though he has never seen the man in person, Renault knows of his reputation. Fallslander never lost a mission.
“Grab him.” The man grabs Renault. “Turn around and drop the knife,” instructs the man.
As the glass partition slides open, the men turn their heads and open fire on the train marshal. The glass door shatters with the marshal falling backward in a heap of jagged pieces. His surprised expression shows lodged bullets sprinkled across his face and chest. The polished floorboards are soon drenched in his blood.
While the man fires at the marshal, Renault swings his arm at the man next to him. His elbow connects in the center of the man’s face flattening the nose bridge. Grasping for air, the man feels an immediate headache as cartilage pierce his brain. The man dies before he has a chance to spasm. As he drops, Renault pulls his gun and fires upon the man who is firing at the marshal.
Renault feels the nagging pinch of his injuries. Ripping a cloth from a dead man, he fashions a makeshift bandage. The sting of a fresh wound reminds him he is still alive. Yet, he winces with each touch. From his bag, Renault retrieves balm and rubs the wound.
One cut is deep. He knows he’ll bleed out in several hours if he doesn’t seal the wound. From a small jar, Renault rubs the flammable material on the wound and lights it. He bites down on a rag while the seething pain erupts like piercing knives through his veins.
Although bark root tastes like mud, Renault chews on the bits for pain relief. The bleeding diminishes from being cauterized, but the sting lingers for several hours. Anything stronger and he’ll be out of commission.
Renault grabs his
bag and heads to the train. He notices the conductor did not stop the train which is odd. Whenever a major disturbance occurs, halting the train’s progress is protocol. With certainty, this event qualifies as a major disturbance. What the hell is going on?
Chapter 10: Marshal Baneo
Drake, the Kill-Smith, has no other choice but to implement Plan B. Besides, he wears the uniform and has the paper to prove it. He needs that bag. The sooner, the better. Drake approaches the deputies with his bloodstains. He draws everyone’s attention.
“Who’s in charge?” Drake asks.
The men gaze at him then at each other. They appear aghast, bemused and indecisive, as if he had just slapped their mother and tickled her nether regions. The lanky older gentleman in the middle breaks the silence. “That would be me, Sai. I’m the shariff around these parts. Name’s Gerander. Who the fuck are you?”
“Marshall Baneo of the 4th Regiment in Catskull, Sene-Gaul. I believe you found my saddlebag, an old large, dusty maroon leather bag.” He appears to have just seen it. “That’s it. Hand me that saddlebag, deputy.” The deputy peers at Drake with an indignant glare. He looks to the shariff for confirmation.
“You ain’t getting a goddam thing, Sai, not until a lot of questions are answered around here. First off, show us your tin.”
Drake pulls out his replicated marshal badge encased in pure silver. It looks better than the real thing. He takes it out and sighs as if it is the biggest inconvenience. “I really need to get going Shariff- at tempest halt. I’m on the trail of several fugitives from Sene-Gaul in Catskull.”
The shariff looks at him as if he is the biggest dipshit in the world. “You ain’t going anywhere until some questions are answered.” He pauses, sighs and removes his hat to wipe the sweat off his brow. “No, uh Sai Baneo, is it?”
“Marshal Baneo,” corrects Drake.
“Whatever,” responds the shariff in an exasperated tone. He motions to the room and the corpses thrown onto a wagon cart. “That your mess you left?”
“Those men tried to kill me, Shariff. I was merely defending myself.”
“Uh, huh? So, you say. Seems we can’t exactly ask them what happened? Can we?” The other deputies snicker.
He looks to one of his deputies. “Brine, cuff Sai Baneo and bring him to my office straight away.”
“Ai,” answers Brine. Drake sighs and rolls his eyes.
“Is this really necessary?”
“Just a precaution, Baneo. For our protection as well as yours.”
Unable to risk killing several innocent deputies and other bystanders, Drake endures being shackled. He marches down to the office and county jail. The building is a large brick structure. It dwarfs the other buildings around it, except for the municipal County Hall.
The jail reflects the brand of Sene-Gaul city, clean white-washed walls with fresh polished hardwood floors. On several gun racks are weaponry -- shotguns, small flame-throwers, Houk pistols, sniper rifles, miniature ballistas, speed shooters, and raiding knives.
Drake admires them with appreciation, but it also makes him a little nervous. A sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach churns, building up acid and turning his insides to jelly. His heart speeds in response. “You boys expecting some sort of uprising?” he asks.
“Those boxes are just the leftovers from 57th infantry’s stockpile.” Brine says. “That General Crixus of the Sandonistas is being transported on the Southern Line. Word is some foolhardy sumbitches aim to rescue him right off that fucking train. Well, we got wind of it and are taking no chances. Every man gonna be armed to the teeth. Ain’t no way anyone’ no how is going to rescue him.”
The shariff smacks Brine on the head. “What the fuck?’ Brine questions.
“Why don’t you just tell him everything? For all we know, he could be with that outfit looking to spring that general.”
“Even if- ain’t nothing anyone can do about that now,” defends Brine.
“I swear to God you is about as worthless as tits on a boar, Brine. As bad as a Goddam gossiping pube girl.”
The shariff smacks him again, hoping to emphasize the point.
“I cry pardon, Shariff.”
“You’ll cry pardon yourself right into a fucking pine box if you don’t wise up.”
Fuck. My brothers are walking straight into a trap. Goddam Whalen.
In his lap, his hands have shackles. While obscured from the shariff and his men, Drake extracts the small lock pick inside his shirt. In seconds, he is out of his cuffs. As quietly as possible, he places them in his lap.
“Shariff, it’s important I leave at tempest halt. Those men I’m searching for are the same men who are going to board that train.”
“You ain’t going anywhere Baneo. I just sent a telegraph to your commanding officer and I expect to hear back from him any moment.” He looks to one of his deputies. “You- Kal, look through that saddlebag of his.”
Kal picks it up and looks through the contents. As he does, his eyes widen in amazement. “Holy Hoppin Christ on a pogo stick.” His look of bewilderment slowly turns to a smile. “You ain’t going to believe this Shariff.” Kal lays several of the tools on the desk. In front of him are cutting tools, branding irons, small needle-nose pliers, a flamethrower, speed shooters, thermite, lock picking tools, and several ballistas. There’s a schematic of the train.
The shariff walks over and looks at the contents of the bag in amazement. “Well, it looks like we apprehended you right in time, Sai.”
The other men congregate around the shariff’s desk.
Drake rises from his chair holding the handcuffs he had just broken free from out of sight. He says, “There’s something you don’t understand, Shariff.”
“What’s that Sai?”
Drake motions him in with a gesture “Everything, Shariff.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Drake swings the handcuffs like a club. The metal connects with the shariff’s face. He buckles and drops. For a split second, it stupefies the other men. Drake seizes the opportunity and draws his speed shooters.
One deputy fires. But Drake blows the gun out of his hand, grazing his hand. “Fuck!” he yells.
“The next one goes in your kneecaps, Sai. All of you drop your gun belts and throw your guns in the middle.”
The deputies comply, incensed one man could have gotten the drop on them and in such short order.
“Good. Wake up your shariff. Make sure he’s okay.”
Kal walks to the shariff’s desk. He finds a smelling salt vial and places it under the shariff’s nose. The shariff stirs in response and pushes Kal away from him. The moment he sits up, a wave of dizziness washes over him and he vomits.
“Good,” responds Drake. “No need for any of you to die needlessly. Now get inside those cages.”
“The fuck we will!” Kal snaps. “You have another thing coming if ya gonna lock us in there with those animals.” Drake fires off a shot, grazing Kal’s ear and taking off a small slice. He screams in surprise and shock as his hand touches his ear, ensuring it’s intact.
“Do it now, if you want to keep the rest of your ear.” The shariff and deputy exchange knowing looks and nod at each other in resignation.
Brine and Kal help up the shariff and they walk into the holding cells. Drake slams the cell door shut.
“You won’t get away with this, Sai. There’s a squadron of soldiers set to rendezvous with us. And when we don’t show, they gonna come looking for us. You hear? You’re dead-by the end of the day! Set watch and warrant it!” bellows the shariff.
“Believe it or not, that’s actually the least of my worries,” answers Drake. He strolls out of the shariff’s station and heads straight for the tin shed. They set this up earlier for the backup: Plan B. In larger hubs, a manual trolley is customary as a standby for emergency repairs.
Drake pulls off the tarp which doubles as an extra-large horse blanket. The modified trolley reveals a machine with its own internal combustion engine powered b
y methane. This vehicle qualifies as one of Merlin’s many inventions he kept under wraps.
With anxiousness, Drake examines the trolley and kisses it as if in prayer. “Please for the love of God, work. Hopefully, Renault had a chance to test it out.”
Drake turns the two-handled crank until he hears the motor sputter, spit and fire its multiple pistons. Seconds after he stops turning the crank, the thing dies on him. Drake repeats the process again only to have the engine stop seconds after he stops the crank. “Fuck!” He yells.
And it dawns on him. The gas. This time Drake repeats the process only he revs up the gas as soon as the thing starts. It sputters, sparks and catches. The loud obnoxious engine comes to life. With his foot on the gas, he eases off. Drake uses the clutch and shifts into gear. The trolley lurches forward and almost dies. With a bit of luck, the torque kicks in and propels the trolley at breakneck speed.
With no time to open the tin shed door, the trolley crashes through it, causing a loud ruckus. The surprised townspeople and passengers stare at Drake. He laughs in elation that the contraption works. As he glances back at the shariff station, Drake notices several Astra-Gaulian soldiers arriving.
One soldier comes running out in a frenetic state, barking orders at his subordinates. And Drake’s hasty escape catches their notice. The soldiers look at their commanding officer for confirmation and take off after the assassin.
Drake revs up the engine higher, engages the clutch and puts it into high gear. The engine responds, propelling him past the town and along the tracks. Minutes later, the pursuing soldiers are a faint blur in the background. He assumes Renault is in just as much trouble as himself. “Fuck.” He mutters under his breath.
Chapter 11: Close Quarters